The Guard's Choice
by Tinuviel's Undomiel
Summary: This is a short story regarding one such seemingly overlooked character: Beregond the Tower Guard in the Citadel of Minas Tirith. This story recounts the days and moments up to and after the death of the porter at Rath Dinen and the rescue of Faramir. He's one of my favorite Tolkien characters and is very underrated, so I really hope you guys enjoy this!
1. MARCH 11TH, YEAR 3019 OF THE THIRD AGE

**MARCH 11TH, YEAR 3019 OF THE THIRD AGE**

It was the second day without a dawn; the sky was clouded over in a stream of darkness. It came from the East, with the clear and successful purpose of spreading despair.

Some of the men around him feared the City's strength would fail this day, yet Beregond and his Company would have no part in the main defense of Minas Tirith. It was the duty of the Tower Guard to maintain the fortifications of the Citadel, the seventh and highest tier of the City, to obey Lord Denethor's will. Beregond was only present at the wall with Mithrandir and Master Peregrin to watch the departure of Faramir and his men for Osgiliath the day before, and would return to the Citadel to await orders. Though he did not wish to gainsay his master's command, Beregond could not help the disturbance he felt at Faramir being set to this nearly impossible task. It was as if he willingly went to his death; such was the general concern at the sight of his sortie in the distance the day before.

"If he wins back at all across the Pelennor, his enemies will be on his heels," spoke one messenger during his report. "They have paid dear for the crossing, but less dear than we hoped. The plan has been well laid. It is now seen that in secret they have long been floats and barges in great number at East Osgiliath. They swarmed across like bees. But it is the Black Captain that defeats us. Few will stand and abide even the rumor of his coming. His own folk quail at him, and they would slay themselves at his bidding."

 _The rumors of his coming have spread indeed_ , Beregond thought, watching as Osgiliath was razed and crumbled along the Anduin on the other side of the Fields. _This Shadow has a heavy weight to it._ All those present could feel it in the air around them. Minas Tirith was trapped between Mindolluin and the River, with no sign of aid from the Rohirrim. Gondor was on her own as the last defense of Middle-earth, and Beregond knew the power of the Enemy would soon be shown in full force. In the back of his mind, he felt he had a small part to play yet in the coming days.


	2. MARCH 12TH, YEAR 3019 OF THE THIRD AGE

**MARCH 12** **TH, YEAR 3019 OF THE THIRD AGE**

* * *

"Where is Faramir?" cried Beregond in dismay. "Say not that he has fallen!" This he called out at the latest news: the wounded trudged back to into Minas Tirith from the wreck at the Causeway Forts, at last left by what little of his forces remained. The Captain of Gondor was nowhere in sight.

The passage of time was a difficult thing to tell: the days were dim and the nights were dimmer since the Shadow was conjured above. Beregond and his comrades hoped Faramir's men could hold the line at Osgiliath until enough those of Gondor and Dol Amroth were gathered for a second retaliation. What stayed the Steward's tongue, Beregond could only guess in silence. His questions would no doubt stir more unrest within the Companies. He was pulled from his thoughts by speech and watched as the Lord of the City and the Prince of Dol Amroth approached.

"What more would you hear, my lord, before you gave your orders? Were the words of your own men not to your liking? Even the Causeway was taken, and your son is now surrounded by dark legions!" Gone was the cordial tone with the lord from days past. He walked behind the Lord Denethor, who himself appeared a darker image of himself: the closer he came, the more Beregond noticed the dirt lining the bottom of the black sable cloak he pulled close around him and the pallor of his face. Denethor must have felt another set of eyes on him, and glanced at the guard standing to the right before turning his dark eyes upon Beregond. It unnerved him, as if the power and mindset of another were looking through the lord's eyes before he turned them toward the Tower.

"Or do you yet hope for darker news?" The Prince's voice was low and stern as he stared at Denethor. A dark glint shone in the lord's eye as he halted, stopping the Prince in his advance.

"My firstborn is dead, and you dare to presume that I condemn my second-born. My wish is for Faramir to at least earn the honour and credit men give to his name as a Captain of Gondor. He is carrying out his duty to Minas Tirith and to _me_ as his father and Steward. I trust you see the sacrifice I am faced with in placing the defense of this city above the only son left to me. The Enemy is upon us and we cannot yield." Denethor spoke over his back, but continued to face the Tower. We must all make sacrifices, Prince Imrahil. Do not assume you can understand this burden of mine."

The Prince stiffened. "There is no reason for a needless sacrifice, my lord. All that he did was in your name, and more, and yet you still deny him reciprocation. Simply because he is not Boromir and never will be." He turned away then, his anger and disbelief at Denethor's words apparent beyond anything else. Denethor said nothing as he entered the Tower of Ecthelion, and slammed the door behind him.

 _If this was a sacrifice for the Lord, then surely it would do to spare his son from the onslaught passing the armies of Mordor? Would it not ease his burden and worries, to know his only living son was still alive and well, if only wounded, within the city?_ If the Captain were saved, it would better the morale of the soldiers. Hope was yet within their reach; Beregond prayed the Steward would see reason and not remain trapped within his bereaved mind.


	3. MARCH 13TH, YEAR 3019 OF THE THRID AGE

**MARCH 13** **TH, YEAR 3019 OF THE THIRD AGE**

* * *

"We will not yield!" The voice of the Captain of the Guard, the leader of the First Company, rang out about the Court of the Fountain. The waters of the fountain rippled softly as a result of the destruction below. "We will not show the Enemy weakness. The Citadel must be held at any and all cost. You are of the Guard of the Tower of Ecthelion, the last defense of the Ruling Steward, should Minas Tirith be taken. We must prevail and hold the Gate!" The following silence was the same as before: uneasy.

None gave the thought any possibility, but it was a deceitful hand fate wielded, utilizing the trick of false hope. The Rammas Echor crumbled with the brute force of Sauron's army. No news came of the Lord Faramir since the day before, but the hosts of Mordor ever encroached on the Pelennor. Osgiliath, East and West, was taken. The attempted assault to relieve the army beyond the Gate of their hold on the eastern half of the city were to no avail. Gondor was left open to the Enemy. One could only to wait and pray for Rohan's aid, but Théoden's men were more likely to recuse naught but a pile of stone overrun by orcs and Southrons than an actual city.

" _It is over-late to send for aid when you are already besieged."_ He remembered telling as much to Master Peregrin when they broke their fast upon the battlement near the Citadel storehouse and watched as the last of the wains and caravans bore away to refuge the aged, the children, and the women who must go with them to the vales Tumladen and Lossarnach. Borlas was among them, too young to stay and be put to task like his brother Bergil.

Men moved about among the Citadel's buildings, looking away from the sight of the distant fires in the field and the rhythmic march of the approaching hosts. When they finally ceased, a call arose, surely a din about the lower Circles, but it was only an echo where the Third Company stood. They were too high to endure the assault should the hosts on the ground break through the Main Gate.

 _As if they ever could,_ was the thought Beregond accepted. The alternative was almost too harsh to bare. Beregond was disappointed with the half of himself relieved at being stationed above the fray. To think so was a slight against Faramir's efforts these last few days.


	4. MARCH 14TH, YEAR 3019 OF THE THIRD AGE

**MARCH 14** **TH, YEAR 3019 OF THE THIRD AGE**

* * *

Perhaps the Tower Guard could count themselves as fortunate to be out of range of the catapults. They did not endure the horrors of the soldiers in the lower circles did, but they could feel the trembling of the stone beneath from the precipice on which they stood.

What seemed and still remained so high an honour to be posted at the Tower now pained him, while other men in the lower Circles of the City raised sword and shield in defense against the breach of the Great Gate. Beregond found it difficult ease his misgivings and hold his post when he knew the regiments within Minas Tirith could only hold the walls against a siege of ten thousand orcs, Haradrim, and trolls for so long, but hold it he did.

 _If a Tower Guard abandoned his post, he would be a faithless man indeed._ This Beregond repeated to himself throughout the night. He itched to fight, to raise his sword against an orc, yet he was protected in his perch, high above the battalions below launching stone at the walls of Minas Tirith. There were rumors of unspeakable horrors, but most within the Citadel thought it better to never endure such events in the lower Circles. Beregond could barely sleep now, listening for a sign of Rohan's aid, now beyond hope, and thinking back on the last few hours.

" _The Lord Faramir has been rescued! The Prince rode beyond the Great Gate and saw the lord safely into the City! They just took him into the Tower!"_ Such was the call that woke Beregond in the afternoon. The guards made their rotations from their daily watch from the battlements. Most wept in joy at the return of their Captain, but happiness turned to bitterness at the news of Faramir's condition: he was no longer lost, but he was dying.

If one such as he could brave a futile assault in his father's name, only to be rewarded for his valor with deep-set wounds, a fever, and death, then how could they not despair? The days grew darker and the Enemy grew stronger. Hope burned away into to anger and denial. Denial whittled away into to despair. And now there was naught to do but wait. To stand and fight to the last for their Lord or be overcome by the dark armies of Mordor. Deep in mind, even within his heart, Beregond knew fortune would show her hand for the good or ill of the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth.


	5. MARCH 15TH, YEAR 3019 OF THE THIRD AGE

**MARCH 15** **TH, YEAR 3019 OF THE THIRD AGE**

* * *

How had his efforts gone amiss in such a state?

Mithrandir raged, urging Denethor to see reason, release his poor son into the wizard's own care, and bid his men to stand down. Two lay dead upon the steps of the Stewards' tomb while the rest held swords and torches. Blood had been spilled in the hallows, by Beregond's own hand no less. The day had gone from dreadful to desperate in the guard's attempts to save his friend.

* * *

" _Please!" Beregond cried to the porter. "Captain Faramir is in danger!" He couldn't remain idle any longer after Peregrin pleaded for his help. Any chance of his being alive meant there was some hope left in the besieged city._

" _Captain Faramir is dead, Tower Guard! You saw the procession as well as I. The young lord and his father looked as ghosts: one dead, and the other begging to follow, if you take my meaning. You and all others are forbidden to enter the Silent Street by word of the Steward. I cannot let you pass."_

 _Beregond shook his head, looking about the empty street, as if he could find the solution to his problems in the black doorways of the tombs and mausoleums. He found none._

" _I beg you, noble gatekeeper, bid me entry to the Silent Street. As a Guard of the Citadel, I cannot forsake my lord and captain!"_

 _The man shook his head. "Forsake him you must, good friend. The Steward will not be disturbed! You are a good man, Beregond, but you must accept the truth: Lord Faramir is beyond any man's aid. Return to your post, and I'll not mention this to the Captain of the Guard," the porter bargained._

I have none save Faramir Denethor's son! _He nearly screamed the words, but saw little use in doing so._

 _The moments wore on like years as the pace of his heart quickened. One hand balled into a fist as the other tightly gripped the pommel of his sword. He could not-he would not -draw it until he exhausted all reason._

" _Thrice I have sought peace and thrice you would deter me. I tell you Faramir will die and still you do nothing." Beregond shook his head, hoping for a better solution than to draw his sword. However, he was left with no choice. The gatekeeper unsheathed his blade._

 _This man was no more at fault than he. Both men were obeying their Lord, though Beregond willingly left his station by the Tower to do so. He abandoned his post to save his friend from certain death, and now he was denied entry when Faramir could yet be saved from the pyre._

Please, _he silently begged the porter, eyes roaming his armor for any sign of the cursed key to open the doors to the stewards' tombs. The man was resolute in his stance. Lord Denethor would be obeyed. Captain Faramir would die._

" _You leave me without choice. You shall not pass. Forgive me, old friend."_

 _The song of steel rang in the air within seconds. What came to pass plagued the guard's memory for years to come. Beregond wanted to think he was not given a choice, that the porter would never see reason. Yet he wanted to save the Captain at any and all cost, to stave off his unjust execution while Master Peregrin returned with Mithrandir._

 _Beregond felt a chill creep into the crevices of his armor and settle beneath his skin. It spread throughout his body, the key in his hand draining him of hope for redemption second by second. The cost of the key was more than it was worth in the taking. The song of steel ended, and only silence met his ears. Inescapable, irrevocable silence._

 _Only the dead were witnesses to his treasonous mistake, but the living would seek out the ultimate punishment._

So must it be, _he thought. Beregond forced himself to move on, leaving the porter where he lay. He refused to let the chill into his heart, depending on the Steward seeing reason at last. He would accept whatever consequences came his way._


	6. MAY 5TH, POST-CORONATION OF KING ELESSAR

**MAY 5** **TH** **, AFTER THE CROWNING OF KING ELESSAR**

* * *

In accordance with the law of Minas Tirith, Beregond was brought before the King in Mithlond by the Captain of the Guard.

"Beregond," the King addressed him directly, looking into his eyes from his seat atop the dais, "by your sword blood has been spilled in the Hallows, where that is forbidden. Also, you left your post without leave of Lord or of Captain. For these things, of old, death was the penalty. Now therefore I must pronounce your doom."

He felt a pain in his stomach, a stab of fear. _Bergil would have none of this,_ he thought, schooling his expression as best he could. Beregond let his mind wander to his sons, who would no doubt wonder why he hadn't returned to the Houses of Healing nor stood at his post. He hoped Faramir would tell them the truth: he forsook his oath as a Tower Guard to save a friend. The King rose from his seat and began to descend the steps, before he continued to speak.

"All penalty is remitted for your valour in battle, and because all that you did was for the love of the Lord Faramir. Nonetheless, you must leave the Guard of the Citadel, and you must go forth from the city of Minas Tirith."

Beregond strived to control his breathing but the air was quick to leave his lungs. What did fate have in store for him now? The King smiled as he stood before him, a glint in his eye.

"So it must be, for you are appointed to the White Company, the Guard of Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, and you shall be its captain and dwell in Emyn Arnen in honour and peace, and the servitude of him for whom you risked all, to save him from death."

Faramir stood behind the king at the bottom of the dais with a smile. It was more than he ever hoped for. _So it must be,_ the Beregond thought, letting out a breath and perceiving the mercy and justice of the King. More than glad with this wondrous turn of fate, Beregond kneeled, kissing the hand of the King before departing in joy and content to find his sons and relay the news.

* * *

Bergil Beregond's son took up his father's mantle in time as Captain of the Guard to the Prince of Ithilien, as was the wont of every loyal servant borne of Beregond's line while the descendants of Faramir prospered in the seat of Emyn Arnen.


End file.
